


Mixed Up, Muddled Up, Shook Up World

by Nyssa



Category: Lola - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dear boy becomes a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mixed Up, Muddled Up, Shook Up World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waltzforanight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzforanight/gifts).



“I wouldn’t want you to think, dear boy, that this is the way it always is.” I reach for the packet of Gitanes on the nightstand. “Because, you know, it isn’t.” I tap one out, light it, and toss my head back, taking a long draw and letting a languid stream of smoke escape my pursed lips. It’s a particularly fetching effect, I’m sure, in the candlelight.

He doesn’t speak immediately. He’s watching me, his eyes fixed on my mouth. I click my fingers under his nose.

“Oh!” He blinks rapidly. “Yes, yes, well, I had gathered that, really. Ah, that this, ah, situation might lean a bit to the unusual.”

“Mmm, yes, well, that depends on one’s perspective.” I give him a bright smile and tip his chin up with a finger. I’m a head taller than he, in my pumps. “Let’s just say that most people – the dull, dreary, ordinary run of humanity – lack imagination. They quite fail to understand the appeal of the exotic, and so they denigrate that appeal. That is not to say, of course, that the exotic is in any way _superior_ to the mundane. Oh, no. I categorically reject that sort of vile, inverted snobbery. I feel I must make that clear, considering your – well – your lack of experience in these matters. I wouldn’t like to be accused of warping impressionable young minds, so I must stress that, indeed, this _situation_ , as you put it, is far from the accepted norms of our society.” I take a deep breath. “If you’re really quite set on fucking a girl, my dear, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

He blushes – delightfully, adorably – at the word _fucking_ , and I feel such a tug at my heart, reader, as I can scarcely describe. The innocence, the freshness, the _sweetness_ of youth! Such a tonic it is, such a balm to the soul!

“I’m – I’m – ” he stutters for a moment, “ – I can be flexible. I think.” His face reddens even more, as if the ginger colour of his hair has drained into the skin. “I really can’t say. I’ve never done this before.”

“I have, though, dearest. Many, many times.” I deposit the cigarette in an ashtray and smooth his lapels gently. “Go and sit on the bed now, there’s a good lad. And watch.”

He does. The poor dear is so _jumpy_. I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly, like a rubber ball on a particularly hard surface.

I take off my pearls first. They were my mother’s once. Lady Madeleine Thursby, 1899 – 1954. Eight years in her grave, and not a day of those eight years that I haven’t worn them, under my clothes when necessary, but always, always there. She’d have wanted it that way. His Lordship all but expired from outrage when the will was read, and my sisters – well, if looks could kill, as they say. But they have other remembrances of her, and His Lordship has despised me since the day he caught me, aged five, swanning before the gilt mirror in their bedroom in her satin dancing slippers and feather boa. One more feminine accoutrement didn’t alter his opinion in the least.

I sit down on the bed, and he moves away from me, giving me room. The pumps (black, gleaming, three-inch heels; I can’t wear higher without crippling myself) I remove and place carefully under the bed. The stockings are next. They’re silk, and sheer as air. I’m reaching for my garters when he interrupts with a hand on my wrist.

“May I?”

I look doubtfully at his fingers. “Oh, my dear, I don’t want them snagged. You will be careful?”

“Yes, yes.” His voice has sunk to a whisper, and he places one trembling hand on each of my knees. “It’s just that – that I’ve always liked ladies’ stockings. I like the way they look. And – and the way they feel.” He blushes again. “When I was a boy I used to creep into my parents’ bedroom sometimes and take my mum’s stockings out of the drawer and just – touch them. Just run my fingers over them, you know….” He trails off, his eyes distant. “I suppose that’s not normal.”

I sigh. “I wouldn’t know, my dear. I’ve had little personal experience with _normal_ , and I consider myself quite a contented chap, most days. I shouldn’t bother my head about it, if I were you.” Adorable he is, reader, truly, but I find myself becoming a bit impatient to get on with it.

His face clears, and he smiles. “Sorry, I get a bit moody on occasion.” He gestures to my legs and repeats, “May I?”

I smile. “Be my guest.”

I do have to assist him with the snaps of the garters – it’s so endearingly clear that he’s a novice at this! – but then he slides the silk down my cleanly shaven legs with as much care as if I were a virgin bride and this our wedding night. I take them from him and hang them on the headboard, the seams carefully straight.

I slip my frock off my shoulders, and I can see him watching avidly, waiting, waiting for the reveal. I pat his cheek. “It’s quite simple, really,” I assure him, and touch my artfully stuffed brassiere cups. “Just a bit of cloth applied judiciously can make a woman of any man! Or as near as dammit, anyway.” I rise, unhook the bra, let the dress slither to the floor, and then I stand before him in nothing but a scrap, a wisp, a mere strip, of lacy knickers. I bought them at Marks and Spencer, it shames me to admit, but being cut off without a penny by His Lordship has made it necessary to economise.

The hoary old saw “eyes as big as saucers” could have been coined to describe his face. Those eyes rove over me from head to toe, lingering, understandably, at groin level. I must say, I do fill the panties out rather well, particularly at moments like these. An appreciative gaze from a comely young fellow never fails to lift my spirits.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers at last, and if the phrasing is hardly original, the sentiment is treasured. I’m soon to be forty, and at my back I begin to hear time’s winged chariot hurrying near.

Since he seems content to stare, I feel obliged to remind him of our purpose. I nudge his foot with mine, and he blinks. “Your turn, darling. Don’t be shy.”

But he is, as I knew he would be. I’ve had a great deal of experience in matters of the heart, and I know bashful when I see it. He can’t even undo his shirt buttons, his fingers tremble so. I have to help, and I don’t mind. I rather enjoy instructing.

And he is made for it, reader. He is a born pupil, eager to learn, eager to follow. He needs gentle handling, slow, careful coaxing, but he responds beautifully. He _is_ beautiful, young and supple and unmarked, not coarse or terribly muscular, but wiry and strong, and so, so ready. I find myself marveling that I of all people should be the one he chose for his initiation. How is it that no one had the good fortune to snare him ere now?

He is steel and honey in my mouth, velvet heat on my cock, silken smoothness beneath my fingers – and if such descriptions sound melodramatic, a bit flowery, a touch over the top, I can only plead infatuation. Indulge me, reader, please.

Afterwards, he doesn’t mutter embarrassedly, shove himself into his trousers, and vanish on the wind. Not that they all do, but I’ve found that dismal pattern to be a fairly common reaction, particularly among the young and inexperienced, and distressingly often amongst those who are far from inexperienced but consider themselves too upright and respectable to admit it. Instead, he murmurs words of gratitude, strokes my hair (my wig, that is; he’d asked me not to remove it), and curls into my arms with a happy sigh. We share a cigarette.

“You know,” he says, “I didn’t understand when you first spoke to me at the club tonight. Your voice, I mean. I couldn’t work out how a woman could sound so much like a man.”

“That’s the idea, pet. Some fellows don’t know what they want, so I give them a choice.” I tsk, and take a drag on the ciggie. “Some of them don’t know what they _are_ , either. That’s the pity of it.”

“I know what I am, thanks to you.” He smiles, his eyes shining in the candlelight. “And I’m glad I’m a man.”

And so, dear reader, am I.

And if you’re reading, Your Lordship, fuck you.


End file.
